God, I hate substitute teachers. Theyâ€™re always so oblivious and so distrustful. I feel like they think we are messing with them every chance we get, which is somewhat true. Itâ€™s like they think everything we say is part of a prank we are pulling on them because they donâ€™t know whatâ€™s going on in the class. Like today in English for example. I walked into class to see this jolly, plump Santa Claus character spinning himself around in Mr. Becksteadâ€™s office chair. His name was written on the board in this curly, cursive writing, and it read something like â€śMr. Salzedo.â€ť Iâ€™m not really sure if thatâ€™s right though.

So I walk to my seat, and you wouldnâ€™t believe what he did, like really. This guy has the nerve to utter these words from behind his silvery facial hair, â€śGood morning sir.â€ť Sir! He freakinâ€™ called me sir! At first I was embarrassed because I mean itâ€™s pretty embarrassing to be mistaken for a boy. But then I thought about it, and I guess I am pretty boy-ish. I have really short hair that could be considered to be a boyâ€™s hairdo and I do kind of wear boyâ€™s clothing like cargo shorts and t-shirts and stuff. But Iâ€™m not a boy. Iâ€™m a girl. I have boobs and I wear a bra, for Christâ€™s sake.

Well, I did what anybody with even a teaspoon of guts would do and I corrected him.

â€śIâ€™m not a boy, sir,â€ť I replied politely. His eye sockets scrunched up into little wormholes for his pupils to poke out of as his beard made it clear to me that he was puzzled. â€śIâ€™M A GIRL, GODDAMNIT.â€ť

The bell rang and as I remained in my seat, so did he. Without a response, he began class.

â€śWelcome class,â€ť he announced as students settled down in their desks. â€śMy name is Mr. Salzedo and Iâ€™m going to be substituting for your teacher today.â€ť

I looked around the class and everyone rolled their eyes. Everyone hates substitutes.

â€śNow, according to your teacherâ€™s instructions, you guys are supposed to be practicing your lines for your Romeo and Juliet performances, am I right?â€ť

Everyone in the class nodded their heads. Freakinâ€™ Romeo and Juliet. I could never get that play. I mean beyond the old gibberish English that I canâ€™t understand, I canâ€™t wrap my head around how two people of opposite sexes could feel such deep love for one another that theyâ€™d rather die than live without the other like that. Now, Mr. Salzedoâ€™s head was pointed down to the little half-slip of paper on which Mr. Beckstead had written down his instructions. The substituteâ€™s bushy eyebrows furrowed and he curled his lips upwards so they closed over his nostrils.

I was already thinking like whatâ€™s with this guy and mixing up peopleâ€™s genders, when a faint afterthought was vocalized.

â€śWell,â€ť the boy sitting next to me started. â€śSort of.â€ť

Immediately, the class erupted in laughter as the substitute stood by in confusion at what was so funny. I knew what was funny though, and it wasnâ€™t that funny. Mr. Beckstead was a little bit feminine as men go. In fact, he was actually gay. He was very open about it and informed our class on the first day of school as we were all doing our little introductions that we always do on the first day of class. I remember admiring him for that. I was jealous that he had the courage to tell a whole class of judgmental teenagers that he preferred men to women. But I think I was alone in my admiration. All year, Iâ€™ve heard students call him a faggot when they get bad grades in his class, and I donâ€™t even want to get into the kinds of jokes they tell about him. Itâ€™s as if him being gay is causing them to fail English or at least thatâ€™s what they seem to blame it on. Some boys in our class joke that he has a crush on them and warn their friends to guard their butt holes when he asks them to stay after class to go over their essays, and thatâ€™s really disgusting. Like ew. People just donâ€™t see Mr. Beckstead for who he is, you know? Heâ€™s just a great English teacher who loves words and writing and helping out his students. He also happens to be gay, and people let that overshadow the fact that heâ€™s a great teacher. It doesnâ€™t make sense. It really doesnâ€™t. Because Mr. Beckstead is just as much of a teacher as he is gay, but people just peg him as the gay guy, not the teacher.

Well, soon the laughter subsided and class began. Students got into groups and began practicing their scenes. There werenâ€™t enough guys in the class to fill all the male roles so I was cast as Romeo. Ciara was Juliet. Ciara was so beautiful, probably the most beautiful girl in school. She had this really perfectly straight blond hair and perfectly smooth skin and just the perfect facial structure.

As we read our lines, I could just feel this vibe. It was like I was really Romeo and she was really Juliet; we were in love. I recited mine perfectly and she stuttered a bit, but she made up for it by smiling and giggling a little bit each time she messed up. The moment came for Romeo and Juliet to kiss and I swear I like felt it, like I was really going to kiss her.

Call me crazy, and maybe I am, but I recited my line perfectly and then proceeded to lean in with my lips squished together and puckered; they were anxious to meet herâ€™s. I was mere centimeters away, about to make contact, when her arms grabbed my shoulders and pushed me away.

â€śWhat the f*** do you think youâ€™re doing?â€ť she yelled. â€śGet away, you dyke!â€ť

The whole class was silent, awkwardly silent, as everyone turned to look at Ciara and me. She had this utterly disgusted look on her face, as if she went to the toilet to find it with the seat up and clogged. Tears welled up in the corners of my eyes as I could feel the humiliation squirming around in the pit of my stomach. Flagrant giggles began to sound around the room. They were popping like popcorn in the microwave, starting with just a few chuckles and eventually erupting into laughter. I couldnâ€™t take it anymore. Maybe I was just imagining this in my head, but I felt like among the laughter I could hear a faint chant, â€śDyke, dyke, dyke, dykeâ€¦â€ť

And now I was nothing more than a dyke. I was a lesbian girl who always tried to make moves on straight girls, at least thatâ€™s what people saw me as. And as I edged out the door, all the other girls backed away in fear. They mustnâ€™t get too close to the dyke; she might rape them.

Part Three: Epilogue

We are faggots. Both of us. Yes, I am gay. And yes, I am lesbian. But we are only fags, because people choose to see us this way. We are made to be faggots by assumptions and stubbornness, by culture and faith, by the status quo and those who think they are normal. I am not normal. And I am not either. We are different. We are different, not just because we are attracted to members of the same sex, and not just because we are more feminine or masculine than other members of our gender. Yes, this does make us different, but this is not all. We have different interests and different strengths. Some of us are incredible at math and others are amazing artists. Some of us are smart and some of us are mentally disabled. Some of us can walk and some of us cannot. And we do not discriminate because we are different in these ways. Believe me, you are not normal. None of us are. But not all of us are picked on or called names for being different. Not all of us must hide our differences from the public. No one is shunned by their family and peers because they are especially athletic or because they have red-colored hair. And yet my brother called me a faggot. And yet my peers labeled me a dyke. Because I am different. Because people see me as being too different. But how are we more different from you than you are from your favorite athlete? Or from the president? Or from a super model? We are all very different, so how can we decide who is too different? Yes, I am gay. And yes, I am lesbian. We are faggots. And we are as normal as you are.

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